One Line: Do You Remember
by Vashti
Summary: Eight months after Simone's death, people are beginning to notice Michael's changing mood. Including Walter. Who tries to help. -Part 1 in the One Line series.-
1. Chapter 1

**Title**:Do You Remember  
**Series**: One Line(1/26)**  
Author**: Vashti**  
Disclaimer**: I don't know you, you don't know me. Let's keep it that way.**  
Summary**: Eight months after Simone's death people have begun to notice Michael's changing mood.**  
Word Count**: 15,574**  
Rating**: PG-13  
**Characters**: Michael, Walter, Birkoff, Elena, OCs  
**Feedback**: it's like air.**  
****Author's Note**: This was originally written for the fanfic100 challenge on livejournal. If you would like to read the complete story (where it is broken into 9 parts) please visit my website.  
**AN2:** The One Line series is in progress, although this story is complete. The series and the accompanying short stories get their names from the song "One Line" by PJ Harvey.

* * *

Do You Remember  
by Vashti  
_First in the _One Line_ series._

*

_The gun is cold against her temple, even through the shielding of her thick hair where it's come loose from her ponytail. It moves with the his gentle intake and exhalation, shifting against her skin. A textured irritant. She focuses on this: holding on to this: making this her reality. With another, distant, part of her brain she hears the lilting of his accent. The words register more distantly still. "Tell me what I want to know or your grey matter gets splattered along the floor."_

"Amana."

The woman in question turned in the doorway. "Something I forget, Walter?"

"Not exactly, Sugar." Glancing around quickly, he gestured for her to step back inside.

Amana gave the room beyond Walter's deceptively small area her own, seemingly cursory, once over before joining him. "What's up?" she asked with a brief smile.

"You're close to Michael right?"

She blinked at him. Hard. "Michael. Michael whose office is down the hall. Michael who is inscrutable on a good day and likely to shoot you between the eyes on a bad one Michael who broke a trainee's arm last week. _That_ Michael?"

Walter rolled his eyes. "Ya don't got ta be so dramatic about it."

"Who's being dramatic?"

"Shh, shh, Sugar. Calm down."

"I am calm!" But Amana did lower her voice. "And Michael really did break some trainee's arm last week."

"Yeah I heard. But I also heard that it was an accident."

"Then how come—"

"Look he didn't break your arm did he?"

Amana shrugged. "I wasn't there. I don't think that counts."

"Does he bite your head off?"

"We hardly ever have two words to say to each other."

"He doesn't ignore you."

"Because we hardly ever have two words to say to each other!" Eyes wide with annoyance and disbelief, she said, "I heard you prided yourself on only smoking the good stuff, Walter."

No small amount of humor flooded the old man's lined face. "Don't talk about a man's bad habits. 'Less you wanna become one," he added with a friendly leer.

Rolling her eyes, Amana shook her head. "So what's this all about, Walter? You know that as a Level Three Op, Michael is as far from me as I am from a civvie. Near as I can tell, from the time that I've been here at least, he doesn't talk to a whole lot of people. And when he does have something to say it's all Section."

"Yeah well…" Walter took a deep breath and let it out in an audible woosh. "He's been going through somethin' extra special lately and I was wantin' to get a little insider information."

"Yeah, I heard about Simone," she said. Her eyes widened. "And there are no— Wait, me?"

Smiling in a grandfatherly fashion – a lecherous grandfather – Walter patted her hand where it rested on a tall table. "Not you in particular, sug, but someone. Thought I saw you two exchangin' words on Monday."

"Two days ago?" She thought about it for a moment. "Just passing along some information, if I remember right. Something Birkoff wanted handed off."

"And Michael took it all right?"

She shrugged. "Yeah. No reason not to, I figure. And he wasn't any more or less expressive than I'm used to seeing him. Well…yeah I guess you're right. Even before the thing with the trainee, people have been talking about how…how…" She moved her shoulders back and forth as if to loosen the sleeves of her grey and black motorcycle jacket. "…tight he is. You know like there's a string in his body that's being pulled in one direction and he's trying to walk in the other direction and there's just all this – _tension_." She shook her head.

A cheeky grin taking over the grandfatherly look, Walter said, "But you're not afraid?"

"Not enough to not do my job. What's he going to do? Break something? He's not that bad," she added with another eye roll.

"Maybe this'll work out after all," Walter said, rubbing his hands together.

"What will?"

Michael looked up. He placed the woman standing in his door, waiting for his acknowledgment of her presence, at about twenty-three years old. Though she was slouching against the doorframe, he put her at just above average height for a woman. Her dark hair, dark eyes, and golden tan so late in the season suggested that she was of either Latin or Mediterranean origin. If he remembered right there was a curl to her hair – the kind that seemed to gain volume with handling. He'd spoken to her a few days ago.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

She took it upon herself to step inside. "Mind if I talk to you? No," she said, shaking her head. "Don't answer that. You'll say no. Which wouldn't help me. So…are you busy?"

Tempting as it was to say yes, and true though it may have technically been, Michael knew that he wasn't busy enough. "No."

"Good. I can have a seat then," she said helping herself to the guest chair. It had only just been brought in by Acquisitions that morning. He'd only just gotten the office a few days before—

Michael's mind split around that thought, like water around a submerged rock, and converged on the woman in front of him. _Amala?_ he wondered. He must have said it aloud because she was shaking her head. "-mana. Not -mala. Amana."

He felt compelled to incline his head toward her, to acknowledge her correct name. Then he discarded it. Useless. A waste of time. "What do you want, Amana?"

"I can see you're big on preambles," she said to her blunt fingernails, playing with her feet. The words should have come out as biting or sarcastic. Michael detected only nervousness and some fear.

"Look," she began again, raising her eyes to meet his, "Walter asked me to ask you if you're all right. Okay so…" she shook her head, "not like that. I think he was looking for a little, a _lot_, more finesse. Some subtlety, sure. I'm also pretty sure he didn't even mean for me to ask you." Her eyes dropped down to her short fingernails. She toyed with what was left of them. "Subtlety is not my thing. At all."

Eyes raised and dropped again. "Madeline says I'm bright and all but that that's not good enough."

"It's not."

He may as well have not said anything, because she kept going: "That if I keep it up I'll stay a Field Operative for the rest of my unfortunately short life." Eyes narrowed as she remembered, Amana nodded to herself. "Yeah, I think those were her words exactly – 'unfortunately short life.' Anyway…" She shook herself. "It prompted me to do some research on the lifespan of a Field Op. Two months to two years. Post training of course. But—"

"I may not be occupied at the moment," he said breaking in, "but I have other things to do. What did you want?"

She seemed startled at first, as if she too had forgotten her purpose. "Oh. Yeah. That. I mentioned it before, remember? Walter wanted me to find out how you are. Y'know, considering. And I think I was supposed to be covert about it, but I do covert about as well as you do preambles." Sitting back in her chair, regarding him from lowered lashes, with her head tilted to one side, Michael wondered at the change in demeanor. Had something he'd said or done put her more at ease? Perhaps because he'd allowed her to ramble on without interruption. Something to correct in the future.

He realized then that she was waiting for his answer. "I would think that Walter has more important things to do than to worry about me."

Shrugging she said, in agreement, "So would I, but he did ask and he's going to want to know what I found out."

Ready to put the whole, strange, conversation out of his mind, Michael picked up a sheaf of papers and began quickly scanning them. "Tell him whatever you'd like."

She made a brief, annoyed, sound. "I'm sure those instructions would be enough to send anyone else scurrying out your door, but that won't work for me. Not that I wouldn't like to go. I have the distinct impression that breathing—"

"The point, Amana."

"Right. If you don't give me an answer to give to Walter then I'm going to be my straight forth, outspoken self and give him my opinion," she calmly explained. "It's not a very rosy opinion. It's actually a shaking in—"

"Tell him that I'm fine."

"That you're fine?"

Michael looked up at her from the paperwork.

"Right, that you're fine." She stood. "Got it."

Turning back to the papers in hand, he watched surreptitiously as she smoothed curls behind her ears and ran a hand over her hair. "Thank you for your time, Michael. I'm sure it was trying," she said as she stood.

"Amana. Wait."

She paused and turned around. Hands behind her back, feet shoulder-width apart, she would have been ready for military inspection if not for her black and grey motorcycle jacket, grey T-shirt and blue jeans. "Yes, Michael?"

"Take this report to Madeline?" he said extricating a stapled set of papers and quickly scribbling out a note.

"Requesting my cancellation? And though it seems unlikely, cancellation's only the second most likely cause of death for Field…" she trailed off as he looked up, stapled report in hand. "Right." She nodded.

At the door, she paused. "I'm sorry about Simone. I know—"

"Out."

*

_Her shoulders ache from holding her hands up in surrender. Her knees ache from being on the cold concrete. Her arms burn from the strain. If she looks up she will see the world taking on a sharpened reality as endorphins are dropped into her system to compensate for the extended pain. As her breathing begins to synchronize with her captor's she changes her focus to these things: the aching knees, the aching shoulders. And so it is still with a distant ear that she hears: "Did you hear me?"_

"So…?!"

Tired, beat up, a little bloody and more than a little smelly, Amana knew that Walter – who had met the returning team at the airlock – wasn't talking about the experimental sights he'd put on her and Thorne's rifles. At least that wasn't all he was talking about.

"Need some more research Walter. And sleep."

"And debrief," Thorne called out as he trudged wearily past them.

"Mmm, that too."

He saw her fidgeting on her feet, waiting for something from Birkoff, as he passed Central. He watched Birkoff turn to look at her over his shoulder and speak. She stopped fidgeting.

As they moved out of his peripheral vision he saw that she was in motion again.

Michael wondered what she'd told Walter.

"Don't you ever stop moving?"

Amana paused midway through rocking on the balls of her feet. She lowered herself slowly. "Just when I'm on a mission," she drawled.

"Well let's pretend it's one of those."

"If you'd get me the information little bit sooner, Birkoff, then you could get rid of me."

He snorted. "Trust me. I'm working on it." He deigned to glance up and over his shoulder at her. "This isn't exactly common knowledge you're looking for, Amana."

"I know," she said, slowing swaying from left to right.

"Why couldn't Walter just ask for this himself?"

Amana was certain that the bespectacled genius wasn't talking to her, but that didn't stop her from saying, "He probably wanted deniability. Field Ops are a dime a doz. I get found out with something I shouldn't…Operations will either chalk it up to curiosity and have me reprimanded or just have me shot between the eyes. If Walter gets caught with some—"

"It was a rhetorical question."

"I know."

Shaking his head, Birkoff spun around in his chair, a mini-disc held out between two fingers. Amana turned her head slowly, the angle sharp, first to the left then to the right, cracking the bones. She took the disc. "Thanks."

Walter watched Amana over the rim of his stark white coffee cup wondering if he was seeing a true reflection of her personality in the set of her dark eyes and the tension in the fingers holding her own stark white cup. In his limited dealing with her, he had seen many faces of her personality. She could be flighty, impetuous and mouthy…quiet, calm and considerate. He wasn't sure yet if one character set was a cover for the other, or if she was simply a complex person. Walter was hoping it was the latter. There were too many cookie cutter operatives in Section in his opinion. Not enough life.

"Like I said, _he_ says he's fine," she said, fingers tightening on the handle of her cup. "Or, not really. He did tell me to get out."

Walter's eyebrows rose. "And why was that, Sugar?"

"I mentioned Simone—"

He groaned. "What are you, nuts?! She's only been dead a few months."

"I was offering condolences!" she said quickly. Realizing just how loud that was considering the paucity of people, she gave the cafeteria an appraising visual sweep. There were four other operatives, not including various service people, scattered across the room.

Walter smiled. "Don't worry, Sugar. Nothin' you said should raise any flags."

She snorted. "Call me paranoid." Sighing she went on: "Anyway I didn't get anything useful out of my encounter with him which I'm sorry for."

Shrugging, Walter said, "Not your fault. Michael's good people. Or he was until Simone was lost in that mission."

"So I hear from the ops I've been sounding out. That Michael was a decent guy, a good leader but after that…" Amana shook her head. "I bet there's no chance of getting Madeline and Operations to give him some down time to deal with his grief."

"Ha! They weren't exactly set on the marriage in the first place."

"I see." Her eyes narrowed. "I don't like mysteries, Walter. I don't like closed doors. I'm like a cat. I keep trying until the door swings open."

It happened so fast.

One moment she was driving down the deserted suburban street, glancing over into the passenger seat looking for a rubber band to pull her curling hair out of her face. The next moment a small child was running in front of her car.

She slammed on the breaks so hard she was shocked the airbags didn't activate. Her heart, on the other hand, was doing it's level best to climb out of her chest. Perhaps to see if she had hit the child? Well she could help it along.

_Get a grip, Amana. Can't lose it now, especially if that kid needs a doctor_, that always composed, always calm part of herself told her as a string of curses and prayers came spilling from lips. With trembling hands she tried to undo her seatbelt only to find that she was shaking too much. _"Ai Dios Mio!"_ One jerk short of whipping out her sidearm and shooting the thing it released.

She was out of the car and around the front almost before she knew that she was free.

The child was still standing in front of the car, staring at it with the large doe eyes of the young. Clearly she wasn't the only one feeling a bit shocky. Crouching next to him, she gently took his narrow little shoulders and turned him toward. "Are you okay, _Papi_?" she asked him, her voice hoarse with both emotion and the lingering effects of a cold.

He stared at her with those wide eyes, blinked, then flung himself into her arms wailing to the high heavens. Unprepared, she nearly fell on her rear but caught herself with one hand on the car bumper. "_Ai, bendito_, it's okay. Shh, _papi_," she soothed, steadying herself enough to stand with him in her arms.

One hand on his back, the other stroking his hair, she settled him on her hip and turned in a slow circle next to the car. "Where do you live, _mijo_? Can you tell me where you live?" she asked though she wasn't sure he was old enough to say more than a few words. She even repeated the question in Spanish.

He sobbed against her neck.

"Okay. We'll see who looks like they've lost a kid. Somebody's got to notice you're gone by now." Shifting him a bit in her arms, she walked back to the car and locked the door, only mildly wondering when she'd had the sense to grab the keys out of the engine.

A sudden wind blew her hair around her head and, likely, into the boy's eyes.

"ADAM!"

She whirled around. Hair blew in her face.

*

_He can see her clearly through the gun-sight. He can hear every word she speaks, or doesn't speak, through his comm. He can hear the things her captor says as well, though distantly. "I heard you," he hears her say._

Michael hadn't known time could stop utterly – not like this. Not leaving this feeling that he had lost his _self_ and yet would have to live in the hulking mass of his body, missing it forever.

And then he'd heard the wail.

And he'd run around the front of the house.

And there he'd seen his son in the arms of a stranger.

He didn't remember yelling Adam's name, but he could only reason that he'd said something because the boy looked up just as the stranger turned with him in her arms – a woman of above average height, below-the-shoulder hair whipping about in the breeze of the unseasonably humid Spring afternoon. "Adam," he repeated, jogging toward them.

The boy twisted in the woman's arms. She obliged by dropping to one knee and releasing him. Scooping him up, Michael buried his face in the boy's longish hair feeling as if he'd regained something lost…something he hadn't realized he could lose.

It felt like a hand pulled his head back by the hair to make him look at the stranger. To thank her. Adam's short, sharp baby nails digging into his neck further served to ground him. _"Merc—"_ Michael stopped himself, realizing that he'd been going on in French and that they were in England.

"Thank you," he said thickly. "Thank you for saving my son."

"Michael."

Every instinct snapped into red. "You know my name."

She had pulled her car over and was waiting inside when he came back out. He hadn't thought that she literally would not move when, arms wrapped tight around his son, he'd ordered her not to – but he hadn't actually thought she'd stay in the near vicinity either. Putting Adam down for a much needed nap, Michael had already been running scenarios to control the damage. The easiest would have been to simply call Section and report that his blood cover had been blown. It wouldn't have mattered where she'd gone, it wouldn't have mattered if she stayed. At some point in the very near future Amana would have been picked up and cancelled. And his cover would be safe.

Standing on the front lawn, he didn't know why he hadn't done just that.

"Look at me, Amana."

She picked her head up from the steering wheel and looked at him, crouched by her window. "You're not going to kill me," she said with the same calm certainty with which she'd said his name moments ago. "You live in this neighborhood, your s-son is in that house… There's no secure place for you to get rid of me."

"I'm not going to kill you."

"You're going to have Section cancel me."

"I've thought about it."

She turned to look out her windshield and nodded.

"Park the car, Amana. Come inside. We're attracting attention." She nodded again, putting her car in gear.

Inside he felt her eyes following him as he moved around the kitchen while she sat at one end of the oblong blond wood table. He asked her what she wanted and she answered. The tray was set between them and he took his seat. "How did you find this place?"

"Preamble." Lifting her cup from the tray, she added a small plethora of miniature marshmallows, cream and cinnamon to the hot chocolate she'd asked for. Michael had the feeling that she thought this might be her last meal. He wasn't sure that it wouldn't be.

"Remember, last winter, when I came to see you. After…"

His coffee lay untouched as he watched her. Waiting.

"Well, you know I wasn't exactly satisfied with your answer. Neither was Walter. Not that he has anything to do with this," she added quickly. She sipped her chocolate. "I…don't like secrets. Half of what got me in Sec—" Michael watched tension pass across her face.

"I made you my personal project," she continued, "finding out what was going on. So I got Birkoff to give me your information. Where your offsite quarters are. And I went there. I thought you'd…" She shrugged. "…be more relaxed in your own setting. But you were never there. So I followed you. Or I tried to," she said, an exasperated breath puffing hair out of her face. "I've been tracking you since…the day after I confronted you in your office.

"And this… This was an accident."

"How do you mean?" he asked her finally, hands hovering outside the coffee mug. They were still unreasonably cold. It was all he could do not to raise them to his face, his neck – also cold.

She put her matching mug down, self-consciously licking her upper lip. "I didn't mean to make contact. When you were never home I just assumed that you were at a bar somewhere drowning your sorrows – or perhaps several different bars. Or maybe enjoying the company of a good prostitute. I didn't particularly care, I just wanted to be able to give Walter a satisfactory report. You're a real hard guy to track, you know."

Michael ignored that last bit, focusing instead on: "Why did you feel compelled 'to give Walter a satisfactory report?'"

Shrugging, she said, "Because Walter took it upon himself to bothered about me when I got out of training, so now I'm taking it upon myself to be bothered with you on his behalf."

"What else did you mean about 'accident?'"

He watched her mentally backtrack, mug halfway to her mouth. Then she nodded, took a sip, and began speaking: "I was literally just driving through the neighborhood. I'm just coming from an appointment in town. When I mentioned that I'd gotten completely turned around last time the secretary gave me directions. Through here. I didn't mean to nearly hit him. Adam. That's what the baby's name isn't it? He just…sort of appeared." There was a certain bleakness around her eyes. Michael ignored that too.

"Did you know he was my son?"

"I didn't know you were _allowed_ to have a family in Section, let alone a son. But he's too old—"

"Why didn't you drive off when I went inside?"

Had she been standing she might have stumbled, he thought, but as it was she managed to jump mental tracks with him. "Like I said in the car, you weren't going to kill me. Not here at least."

He let the look on his face ask the question.

"Because either this is your family that you're keeping secret from Section and so you wouldn't want to draw attention to it in any way, or this is your family that…" Michael watched the mental balking, watched her force herself to acknowledge strange possibilities. "…Section is keeping secret…from everyone else? And they wouldn't want any more attention drawn to your situation than you would. Although I suppose this could be a mission and Adam isn't really yours."

"You don't believe that," he said. From her quick glance into her cup he knew he'd read her correctly. "Why not?"

Still looking down into the cup, she slowly shook her head. "That wasn't Michael the Operative that shouted for that boy or ran out into the street to snatch him up. You weren't… You'd dropped into French when you picked him up. Same as I'd dropped into Spanish when I thought I'd hit him."

Reaching across the table, he lightly grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifted her head. He turned her head left then right. "You've lost a child?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," she said, pulling herself from his fingertips.

It was in him to slam his coffee cup on the table and demand that she would talk about it. Nine years of discipline nearly out the door.

"You didn't answer my question," he said instead.

The look of bleakness was back around her eyes, quickly smoothed over when she noticed that he had seen it. "Which question? About why I didn't drive off?" At his nod she said, "I did answered that one. I'm safer here with you. You won't kill me here, lest you draw attention to yourself. Whether you're avoiding that for personal reasons or because Section is behind this…" She shrugged. "I figured I'd be safe until I was a few miles out of the village.

"Just because the court's official ruling was that I'm psychotic doesn't mean I have a death wish," she added sardonically.

They fell into tense silence. She scooped a spoonful of mini-marshmallows into her hand, carefully avoiding Michael's eyes, and began to eat them. His coffee had cooled sufficiently for him to drink comfortably. And he watched her.

"Did Simone know," she said, meeting his eyes finally. "About your son. And wife."

He held her eyes and let the silence persist. When he felt her about to waver, he took a breath. "Yes."

"And she was o—"

"You ask too many questions," he rasped, setting his cup down.

She nodded. "I should probably go." Standing in the doorway she asked: "Did you call anyone? Section?"

"Would you believe me if I said no?"

"No."

"Get in your car, Amana."

"Michael… Michael…? Michael where are— Oh!" Elena pressed her hand to her heart, nervous laughter bubbling up as Michael came silently around a corner. Her hands were warm, pressed against his chest as his arms encircled her waist, and her laughter breathy against his neck. "Sometimes I think I should put a bell on you. Now I know where Adam gets it." Her arms snaked up and around his neck. She tugged him close, fingers threading through his hair.

Michael brushed his lips across hers. "Welcome home."

Her smile was wide and bright, lighting her eyes as he answered her smile with one of his own. "How was it? Watching him."

"Good. There's something—"

"Who was the woman you were talking to? The woman who left in that blue car?" she asked casually, turning out of Michael's arms.

He caught her at the elbow, his hand trailing down her arm until he had her hand in his. "I have to tell you something."

She was looking down at their joined hands, so it was possible that he missed her rapid blinking or her sudden rush of nervous heat. It was possible. She looked up, eyebrows arching delicately. "Oh?"

"Come," he beckoned, his face open and mild as he led her out of their foyer and back toward the bedrooms.

"Michael where—"

"Just to see Adam."

"I'll see him in a moment. I want to know—"

"This will only take a moment." He turned and looked as they neared their son's room. "I promise."

Elena rolled her eyes. "You're being strange, you know."

"You love me anyway."

"Going to hold that against me forever, are you?"

He winked. She laughed and wondered why she worried.

Michael pushed open the door to Adam's room, simultaneously releasing Elena's hand. As if moving in a dream, she drifted from the hallway into the room and toward the crib. "Michael, he's dirty."

"I didn't have a chance to change him," he was saying as he once again caught her hand, pulling her toward the hall.

"After all of that, I just get to see that my son is sleeping in his dirty play clothes and then you want me away?"

"Yes," he said and there was a smile in his voice. Outside in the hall he said, "I have to talk to you."

"What about?" she asked with only thinly veiled wariness.

His arms once again slipped around her waist. From his superior height he looked down on her, catching her eyes and attention. "While I was outside with Adam, I received a call," Michael told her softly as if whispering a secret. "He was in his jumper so I thought little of leaving him outside. I had not planned to be on the phone very long."

"Michael I don't—"

"Somehow Adam managed to slip his holder. He ran out of the backyard and into the street."

Her eyes widened with terror. "Is he—"

He caressed her hair. "That's why I wanted you to see him first before I explained. The woman you saw nearly hit him, but she stopped her car in time. I came out only a moment later. If she hadn't stopped I would have…" His voice cracked. "I would have seen the accident and been too far away…to do anything."

"But she stopped," Elena said with restrained fervency.

Michael nodded. "She got out of her car, picked up Adam and began looking for me. For someone. I told you I came out a moment after it happened. I invited her inside when it was clear that she was as badly shaken as I."

"And Adam's all right?"

"He was frightened, but he is fine. He fell asleep almost in my arms."

"And the woman?"

"I gave her some of your hot chocolate. We sat and talked about…nothing for a little while, then we sat in silence for a little while longer."

"Did you thank her."

"Elena…"

"Well, in the heat of the moment you may have forgotten," she reasoned with her husband as she relaxed into his arms. "Did you even get her name?"

Michael shook his head, then said, "No, I didn't," when he realized Elena could no longer see is head. "I was just so happy—"

"Of course," she cut in quickly, "I completely understand. And you are a man," she added, smiling against his chest. "You don't think of details like that."

He made a rude, very French, sound and she laughed.

Her hands tightened convulsively on his biceps. "What if she hadn't stopped. Michael? What if she hadn't stopped?"

"Elena…"

"Even if she only tapped him. He's still a baby, Michael. And he's walking so early and—"

Michael ran his hands slowly up and down her back. "I know, Elena."

"What would we have done?" Her jaw clenched and she choked out, "I love him more than myself, Michael…"

"I know."

"And you…I don't know if you could survive losing him."

"Shh, Elena, he's all right."

"Not so soon after losing your sister. Michael what—"

But his arms tightened around her and he was bending down to kiss her. Kiss her and the salty tears she cried for him.


	2. Chapter 2

_Because she's kneeling and her captor is standing, her captor sounds further away than he knows the man should. But Walter's toys are known for excellence above and beyond their call and thus he can still hear every word: "Who are you working for? What was your team here to find?" He inhales and waits for her response._

Amana waited for Operations to finish his discussion with Birkoff. He barely acknowledged her as he strode away, which was well and good to—

"You're on a mission tonight."

Nodding, she turned and met Operations' clear blue eyes. "Yes, sir."

"Tangiers. Fifteen-hundred."

_Tangiers?_ "Yes, sir."

He nodded and walked away, apparently satisfied. Like something tied to a string, she couldn't help glancing up at the perch where she could barely make out the head of a tech working at the wall.

"Standing there for your health, Amana?" Birkoff with his usual air of distraction and annoyance.

She snorted, turning toward him. "Something like that," she said, stepping up on the platform.

He looked up expectantly. "Got something for me?"

"I'm actually hoping you might have something for me. Do me a favor, Birkoff?"

"Depends. What do I get out of it?"

"What…do you want?" she asked, brow raised.

Birkoff leaned back and chuckled. "You're still new."

"Well this was a lot easier when I was in prison. You traded information for smokes, porn and Dove soap. Gotta admit, I don't know what the commodity is in the Section."

Leaning back in his chair, Birkoff threw his arms behind his head and rested it in his laced fingers. "Let me enlighten you."

*

_Take a deep breath_.

"Boyd, Alvarez, Joyce and Mercer: move out."

_Let it out_.

Murmurs of assent filled the van. Michael glanced at Birkoff who answered the unspoken question: "Our coverage is good. Guards still in regular circuit."

"Chatterji, Ha—"

"Hold on, Michael. Someone new is on the grid."

"A guard?"

"Can't tell. They've got their full roster." Birkoff paused, waiting, watching the colors move on his screen, his brows furrowed. "Whoever he is, he's walking with the our guy in sector four, North quadrant. They're both slowing…" He looked up and over his laptop at Michael. "Looks like their having some kind of conference."

"Can you tap into their comm?"

"See what I can…mmm…got it."

Fuzzy static filled the van and then pidgin of French, English and the native languages of both men. They listened for more than a minute before Michael softly declared it to be "an informal debriefing. It's unlikely that they'll be going anywhere soon but keep an eye on them."

"Already on it."

"Chatterji, Hall, Sewell and Cortez: move out. Chatterji, keep an eye out for movement in North-Four."

_"Noted,"_ came the hushed reply. _"Will do. Is our coverage still good?"_

Birkoff nodded, saying, "You're go."

Silence filled the van as each man sat watching his own display of the warehouse's interior and along the perimeter of the grounds. And they waited. Birkoff began tapping out a nameless tune with the end of the stylus he'd had stuck behind his ear. Instead of ordering him to stop, Michael breathed.

_In._

"Michael, that spare hostile is breaking off from the guard. He's on the move."

_Out._

He checked the position of the people he'd already sent in. They were moving as planned, drawing fire out towards the perimeter of the building. "Will that affect the third team?"

"Don't think so, but not sure. This guy's an unknown variable," Birkoff said, though he was sure Michael didn't need the explanation. "My bet would be that he'll go to their central location, probably to the security desk, and try to figure out what's going on."

"Switch the comm. channel."

"Done."

"Shinn, ready your team." Michael got back a murmur of assent. Through the comm. he could hear the soft rustle of clothing as it echoed in the concrete tunnel where Shinn and his five teammates were waiting for Michael's command.

"Birkoff, where's the variable?"

"Almost at the security desk."

"Get that, Shinn?"

_"Yes, Michael. Taking him out will divert us from our plan."_

"Send Reyes."

_"But—"_

"Send Reyes."

_"Yes, Michael. Reyes, you heard him. Take point – you're out first."_

"Have Helmsly lay down cover."

The van filled with the sound of softly muttered assent and movement as Shinn's team reorganized itself according to Michael's modified orders.

"Michael," Birkoff broke in, "he's in position."

_"Okay Reyes, Helmsly, you guys are go."_

Michael turned to look at Birkoff who was already nodding. "Shinn, move the rest of your team."

_"Yes sir."_

"Birkoff, kill the comm. Any word from the other two teams?"

"Not yet," he answered in the measured way that said he didn't expect that to be true for very long. "So far they're maintaining radio silence per the mission specs."

"Good. How's our coverage?"

"Still tight."

"How long until Reyes and Helmsly rendezvous with the variable?"

"Approximately seven minutes."

"And before Shinn's team reach the target?"

"Eleven minutes."

"Is there a point of egress for Reyes and Helmsly?"

Birkoff shook his head. "Well…okay, yeah technically there is, but it's way outside mission specs. Really take us out of our way to pick'em up. We might lose coverage."

Michael seemed to consider that for a moment, then said, "Can you map out a route by which they can rendezvous with either us or their team once their objective is complete?"

"Sure. I can try at least."

"Good. Neither is acceptable collateral damage. Switch to the primary comm. channel."

Gunfire instantly filled the van. Michael continued to calmly study the real-time diagram of movement within the building. Birkoff, on the other hand, flinched when the fighting seemed eerily close to home.

As Michael watched, red dots – Boyd, Alvarez, Joyce, Chatterji, Hall and Sewell – were steadily forcing green dots – the site's guards – out from the center of the building to its perimeter. From below blue dots – Shinn's team – were traveling the length of an underground cement tube who's original purpose had probably been as an escape route. Shinn's team would infiltrate the newly deserted center of the building and download files, steal plans and prototypes before going back down and continuing back out the rear of the building. Beyond which Michael and Birkoff and another transport van waited to bring them back to Section One. Two of the blue dots were separated from the larger body of five and were already moving on the first floor: Reyes and Helmsly. When he'd figured one out, Birkoff would feed them a new way out of the building and they would rejoin their team. Then they'd destroy the building and anyone in it.

From within the white-lined outline of the building, green dots suddenly appeared and engulfed the first two teams. Two red dots blinked out. Radio silence was broken. The staccato of gunfire became a deafening roar. Another red dot blinked out.

"Birkoff, kill the comm."

Silence dropped like something tangible.

_In_.

Michael redirected his attention to the blue dots. Shinn's team was almost out. Green dots advanced on their position. The two blue dots that represented Reyes and Helmsly were lagging behind. Michael could hear Birkoff softly giving them directions. They were back in the concrete tunnel and gaining ground. Someone in Shinn's team fell, blinking out of existence.

They cleared the building.

_Out_.

"Birkoff, bring back comm. Shinn, prepare the charges."

_"Reyes and Helmsly aren't out."_

"I know. Prepare the charges. Birkoff, ETA on their exit?"

"Two minutes, Michael."

"Not enough time."

"I swear they'll be out in two minutes."

"The security force was close behind Shinn and his team. We don't have two minutes."

There was tension in the air, as if Birkoff were going to say something else but he didn't.

_"Charges set."_

"Get out of there, Shinn. Birkoff, on my mark." Counting down in his head from thirty, Michael watched his screen.

At _trois_ – three – Reyes and Helmsly, still in the concrete tunnel, cleared the outer wall of the building. "Mark."

The van shivered with the force of the explosions. Mobile teams had placed the lion's share of the charges earlier in the week at less conspicuous times, leaving Michael and his teams to rig the otherwise useless C4 and set them off.

Two minutes later Shinn pulled open the door of the van. He and two others climbed in. They were driving off seconds later.

*

With trembling hands she turned on the faucets in the bathtub and then the shower. She'd held up fine on the way back to Section and during the debrief. Mostly numb, it hadn't been hard. She'd already showered at Section, getting off the worst of the dust and rubble after the explosion. She'd even done okay on the drive home. It had meant breaking a few speeding laws, but she hadn't thought she could manage slow and steady; it took too much concentration. The shakes had started somewhere between climbing up the stairs and putting her key in the door, however. And they wouldn't stop.

She pulled off her clothes – leaving them where they fell, yanking things off roughly when they didn't give on the first try. There was bruise forming on the lower part of her ribs from where that guy had jabbed her with the butt of his rifle but it could wait until tomorrow. Or later today. She wasn't sure of the time, only that she had driven in the mostly dark on mostly deserted streets.

Nearly naked she went jerkily back into the bathroom and tested the water. Scalding.

She pulled off the last of her clothes and, trembling still, stepped into the hot, hot water.

It made no sense. She was supposed to have gone on a mission in Algiers that night with Elsa, not Tangiers. She was supposed to have laid down simple ground cover not been sent on a side mission to take out a hostile variable. She was supposed to have died – and yet she lived.

Despite what Birkoff had told her, once she'd confirmed that Operations hadn't had a slip of the tongue, that she had in fact been pulled from Elsa's Algerian mission to the one Michael was handling in Tangiers… She'd known. And she'd prepared herself. She hadn't lied to Michael; she didn't have a death wish. If it was going to come, however, then she was going to be ready for it.

But it hadn't come. And she hadn't prepared for that as an option.

Hands braced against the shower walls, the hot spray sluiced down her body to combat the tooth-chattering cold.

*

_Though she's been effectively immobilized for some time she has the adrenaline and endorphin equivalent in her body for someone in a fight. Her breathing is as erratic and unsteady as the man with the submachine gun trained on her. There is sweat tracing prickly paths down her face and pooling under the black fabric of her clothes. Her body wants to move, is tense with inactivity, thrumming with potential energy. She says, "What do you want to know?"_

Walter took the panel from Amana. "If ya don't mind me saying, you don't look so good, Sugar. Don't sound so hot either."

She gave him a weary half-smile and rasped, "That's cause I didn't sleep so good, Walter."

"Not staying up worried about handing in your panel late, were ya Sugar? You know I wouldn't write ya up for something like that," he purred.

Amana pulled the cuffs of her black turtleneck sweater over her hands as she leaned forward on the high counter in front of her. "If you were…thirty years younger, Walter..."

"Don't tempt me, Amana," he said with a chuckle. "You'll give this old man a false sense of hope. Now tell me why you couldn't sleep last night. Seemed like a pretty straightforward mission. Figured it'd be enough to send ya right off."

"Maybe, but I got bruised ribs from where the hostile got me with his sub."

"And what was Helmsly doing?"

Amana smiled. "Eric shot the guy."

"And your voice? You sound like you've been livin' a hard life, girl."

"Already been down in the infirmary. Said I'd inhaled too much dust from the collapsing tunnel. I ran into Eric and he sounds pretty rough too."

"Well I saw Helmsly too, Sug, and he didn't sound like you."

Amana frowned. "Walter…you're starting to sound like my mother. Better. She wouldn't've cared."

He snorted and turned away. "Take an interest in a body and they go and turn you into a mother hen."

Laughing again, she stood up from the counter. "I just came in to return the panel, Walter. I'm headed out. I'm pretty sure I have some down time so I'll see you in a couple of days."

"Yeah, yeah. Rile me up and leave me flat. Just like a woman."

That got another smile from her. "See ya around, Walter."

"One second, Sugar. Before I forget…"

*

"You wanted to see me, Michael?"

He looked up from his computer screen. "Yes. Come in, Amana."

Dipping her head slightly, she tugged at the hem of her black turtleneck sweater, closed the door behind her. The swish-swish of her long denim skirt was loud in his small office as she took a seat. Her eyes tracked him avidly as he reached into his desk and pulled out a small device. He touched it.

They eyed each other: Michael calmly, Amana… He wasn't sure what he saw.

She leaned forward so that her elbows rested on her knees and her mouth was hidden behind the curled fingers of her fists. "Why didn't I die in Tangiers?" There was a rough quality to her voice.

"You were expecting to," he said calmly.

Amana pressed her lips together and nodded. She brought a hand up to smooth hair that was lying perfectly flat.

"Why?"

"Why not?" she demanded, pulling on the sleeve end of her turtleneck.

To Michael she looked more like an anxious collegiate than a skilled killer. But he knew better than many how easily looks deceived. "How did you come to be in Section?"

Her expression changed instantly. Her hoarseness became more pronounced. "Can't you find that out on your own?"

Michael slid a yellow manila folder off his desk and held it out for her to take. Half rising from her seat she reached across the open space and did as he began to speak: "When you were sixteen you were charged with the second degree murder of your father and his lover."

Amana looked up from the contents of the file to give him sharp, weary eyes. "You did read my file. The whore my father was sleeping with killed my baby brother, Julio," she said softly around the roughness of her voice.

Ignoring her, he went on: "You were found to be temporarily insane and were sent to a low profile juvenile detention center for five years. During the last two years of your sentence you were transferred to a comparable women's detention center. While you were there your mother was sentenced to three years for embezzlement.

"Through some clerical mishap the family relation was not noted and you were placed in the same detention center. Some four months after her sentencing, six months to the day of your release, you attempted to kill her without apparent reason. The clerical error came to light and you were evaluated by the prison psychologist. You were declared to suffer from mild psychosis but nothing that would warrant the attack on your mother. Due to the premeditated nature of the attack, the mother-daughter relation and your history, you were sentenced to life imprisonment. Section recruited you a month later. You had just turned twenty."

Amana nodded. She was clutching the sleeves of her turtleneck sweater in her hand and biting her lower lip. Clearly she had something to say about Michael's cut and dried recitation of her history but was debating whether or not to do so. Michael sat back and waited.

Not very long.

"My mother didn't want anything to do with Julio. I was the one up in the middle of the night with him. I changed him. I fed him. He was mine. She didn't want him in the first place. She thought she could keep my father interested with a son," she sneered. "It was why she'd had me, but she'd screwed up having a girl. But he never wanted my mother, he just wanted the prestige that came with marrying her so he slept around all the time."

The first rush of it out, she paused as if giving him space to object to her outpouring of vitriol. Michael waited.

Not long.

"I don't know what possessed her to try again. I was fifteen when she had Julio."

"His birth certificate says his name was Ignatius."

Amana scowled. "Ignatius Julio, after my father. No one called him that, just her when he was around. Even my father called him Julio when he thought of him at all. She was just so…" Amana shook her head slowly. "Julio was my heart. Do you know what that means?" she asked, eyes narrowing. When he didn't respond, she went on, "Where I'm from, when you say someone is your heart you mean …they're everything. Different from a lover, more than a friend. Like a part your body you can't live without. You'd do anything for them just like you'd do anything for yourself. 'Cause that's your heart. And when I found Julio dead in his crib, when I knew the _babysitter_ and my _father_ were just upstairs I made up my mind that they had to die too. My baby, my heart, was not going to go cold in a crib and them not suffer."

She took a moment, sucking in her bottom lip to compose herself.

Michael watched. And waited.

"I can't believe the lawyer got me off. I thought…first degree for sure. I didn't want to die but I didn't care either. Then my mother was put in that center with me and I had a purpose. But I screwed it up. Then Section came for me and I had a new purpose. I needed that."

Michael let silence fill the small office, focusing on his breathing, reviewing what he knew of her file in his head. "Elsa Perlov is your handler."

Suspicious, she nodded. "She's good people."

"What happened to your original handler, O'Neal?"

"Died on a mission."

"You cancel him?"

"You've got my file," she said, seeming more composed. "I was never written up."

"You cancelled him."

They stared at each other from across his desk.

"He was killing us," she rasped softly.

"How so?"

Amana shifted in her seat. "He was a bad team leader. He took unnecessary risks with our lives."

"You could have had him written up."

"Did."

"Then you took matters into your own hands?"

"No…a terrorist cell did that for us."

"So you convinced the other members of your team to abandon O'Neal and let him be cancelled."

A half-smile tugging at one side of her mouth, she rasped, "I didn't convince anyone to do anything. Why do you wanna know?"

"Madeline thinks you could make a good team leader. She thought I should study your profile and that I should study you."

The half-smile faded as Amana's brow furrowed. "I know Madeline wants me to move out of Field Op status. She wanted you to…review me?" To his silence she said, "She was the one that took me off the Algerian mission to Tangiers?"

"Yes."

"You didn't…"

"No."

"But you let me believe—"

"You believed what you wanted to."

Amana slumped back in her seat. "But what about the whole thing with my family? With Julio? Why did you let me go on like that?"

"You needed to say it, so I let you."

He watched her mull over his words and, now, her feelings. Her jaw clenched. She frowned. He waited.

"So you let me vent…because I needed to…so we could get on with the rest of this...whatever it is?"

He waited.

"That's exactly what you did, isn't it?"

Michael touched the small device on his desk. "How did you get the rest of your team to help you cancel O'Neal?"

She slapped the arm of her chair. "I didn't kill O'Neal," she rasped shrilly. "I didn't _get_ anyone to kill him. Cancel him. We didn't protect him, but that was a _group_ decision. I wasn't the only one who saw how he was. He was dangerous to everyone. He'd already got August killed. I'm so sorry that none of us wanted to be next!"

Michael regarded her coolly. Her golden skin was flush, eyes flashing and body rigid as she sat forward in her chair. Dealing with Operations and Madeline would take more finesse than she had, but it was her ability to lead that was in question. Not in very much question. Everything else could be taught.

She was still sitting stiff in the chair when he said, "I'm going to recommend you to start Cold Op training."

Amana narrowed her eyes. "I don't want to be a Cold Op. I already told Madeline that."

"That will be all, Amana."

Eyes flashing, she stood slowly, favoring her left side. "I'm no one's team leader," she said softly around her rough voice. "And you're not as cold as you like to think you are."

Michael's hand hovered over the small device.

"I saw you, remember. You have that file that says in some roundabout way that I got eight people to turn on one guy—"

He touched it.

"—well I've got a mental picture of a half-crazed father desperate to protect the family he loves. You're heart's not dead. And I am no one's team leader."

*

_There's a note in her voice he doesn't know how to interpret. Unable to see her face, her body gives no possible double meaning to her words. "What do you want to know?" she's said. It's disconcerting not to know whether she means it or not. He takes a slow deep breath and fixes her bent head in the crosshairs of his sight as the world drops away._

"Let me put my pants on!"

Amana quickly unbuttoned the faded, oversized man's shirt she was using as an apron over her black tank top and felt it slip down her bare arms. She left it where it fell as she passed from the tiny kitchen into the somewhat larger dining area. She pulled her jeans off the back of the nearest chair where she'd left them to wait, and took a moment to step into them. From the half-wall separating the dining area from the snug apartment she picked up the Browning Hi-Power, clicking the safety off as she entered what passed as her foyer and office-space. She glanced up at the clock over her computer desk and frowned. The _pernil_ in the oven was supposed to be ready soon. Hopefully the Browning was overkill, but just in case…

A sharp right turn in the foyer and an admonishment that "I'm coming!" had her walking down a hallway as long as the foyer was wide – which made it dim without the overhead light on – toward her door. Tactically it wasn't her ideal setup: Though there was space on either side of her door, for no architectural reason she could pinpoint, she would have preferred more. She would have preferred the door to be set into a long wide wall for maneuverability's sake, but you made do with what you had. Or so O'Neal had said that first day as he'd looked her up and down.

For about two feet on the hinge-side of the door, on the right, the hall opened out another five inches or so. Amana squeezed herself into that space. If someone forced the door open it would swing harmlessly in front of her position while offering her a modicum of protection. It could also be effectively used to pin her down, but it was a risk she was willing to take.

Switching the Browning from her right to her left hand, she awkwardly reached out and placed the muzzle against the door at about where she thought she'd hit a man's center body mass. She spoke to the facing wall when she called out, "Who is it?"

_"Birkoff."_

"Who's with you?"

There was a sound of shoes being scuffed against the tile outside her door and some shifting of bodies. She hoped they'd make up their minds soon. One handed and in an awkward position, not to mention holding her weapon in the wrong hand, was a strain on her arm.

_"It's a surprise, Sugar."_

Smiling and shaking her head, she let the Browning drop to her side and stepped out of her corner to disengage the locks. She half-stepped back into her corner to let the men in unobstructed – and, theoretically, still be able to shoot unwanted guests.

"Walter, you old coot, what're you guys doing…here…?" The words slipped from her lips as if they had been forgotten as a third, broad body filled the hall. Amana felt her trigger finger itch, if only as an instinctual reaction to her surprise. It took her longer than it should have to lock the door, but that was because she wasn't good at hiding her thoughts from others. Better to let the door do it for her. She'd always lacked, or disdained, a certain amount of subtlety. Sometimes that served her. A lot of times, especially now in Section, it didn't. She was certain this moment fell into the latter category.

They were ranged out from the foyer back into the hall when Amana turned around. Thumbing the safety on the Browning, she held it lightly by her side as she slipped past one man then the other until she too was in the foyer facing the three of them. "Well this is unexpected." She trained her eyes on Birkoff, standing front and center. Her estimation of him was falling far and fast. "I thought the deal was making dinner. For you. To have at Section."

Shifting on his feet under Amana's scrutiny, he pushed his glasses up and started to mutter something about the terms of their agreement.

Walter took pity on the younger man – or perhaps on his own hunger – and stepped in front of him. "Don't blame Birkoff, Sugar. I heard about the arrangement you two had going and I couldn't help but think of homemade _arroz y habichuelas con pollo, flautas_—"

"_Flautas_ are Mexican, Walter. I'm Dominican."

"Okay, well then _plantainos, _cubanos—"

"Cubans are sandwich, Walter. Or a bunch of disgruntled ex-pats."

"Look, girl, I'm hungry. What do you want from me? Nice music by the way." He placed his right hand over his belly, swung his hips and started singing along.

Amana laughed at that, shaking her head. "I guess I want you to make yourself comfortable. Gimme your coats. I'll put them on the bed."

"Ooh—"

"Don't start, you," she broke in as she draped Birkoff's battered army surplus coat over her left arm.

"Expecting company?"

Amana looked up and past Walter's head, then followed the pointed stare back to her left hand. She'd transferred the Browning there so she could take the coats. Eyebrow raised, she reached for Walter's coat. "No. Hence the weapon."

He was ready with his coat when she reached him and he draped it over her laden arm.

The Browning she put back in it's spot on the half-wall dividing her small apartment when she emerged from the bedroom. She stood facing the half-wall, and thus the tiny dining area and the small kitchen beyond it, and took a deep breath. She went into the living room – a good sized space all things considered – and smiled at her uninvited guests. "Anybody want anything? Like I said, I wasn't expecting company and dinner won't be done for a bit still."

Three pairs of male eyes turned on her and she was suddenly aware that she was alone in a small apartment with three men. Sure only two of them could have been considered a threat, and of them only one whom she thought dangerous – but it was bad street sense to be the only woman in a room full of men unless you knew them very, very well.

"Any of you _hombres_ want something to drink?" she asked, arms loose at her sides. "I've got water, fruit juice, beer, sel—"

"Beer'd be lovely, Sugar."

Amana rolled her eyes. "How'd I guess. Anyway, I also have a bottle of Merlot I've been wanting to pop so if we have any takers…" She offered them a half-smile and waited.

"What kind of juice do you have?" Birkoff asked, pushing his glasses up on his face.

Amana gave him a look but said, "Apple, orange…this fruit smoothie thing… Doesn't really go with _pernil_ though. Save it for dessert."

His face blanked. "Oh. Uh…"

"I'll start you off with water. And—"

"The Merlot. Please."

"Should've guessed," she muttered jamming her hands into her back pockets. Amana turned on her heel and strode out of the room, tossing over her shoulder, "So is there anyone else I should know about."

Walter coughed.

Amana's shoulders drew together.

"Well now that ya mention it, Sug—"

"Whatever happened to privacy and plausible deniability?" she demanded, rounding on him.

"Actually—"

"Shut it, Birkoff." Her personal estimation of him had fallen far. "Who else is coming to this impromptu house party?"

"Just Walter's girlfriend."

Amana glowered at him and Birkoff remembered that he'd been adjourned from speaking.

"All right, Walter, since you apparently also live here _you_ get to help me serve. C'mon…get up…"

The old man didn't need the encouragement. Not if the gleam in his eye meant anything. "Been meanin' t'tell ya, Amana…this is some place ya got. Kitchen's a mite tiny—"

"Don't you ever bring Michael to my house ever again."

Walter raised his hands; whether in self-defense or surrender she didn't care. "Whoa, Sugar, what's this about?" His voice dropped to match her hissed whisper. "You were the one who said—"

"I know what I said. That wasn't an open ticket to use me as your…your…your group therapy session! This is my house! Michael is dangerous—"

"He's not dangerous. And I thought you weren't afraid of him."

"No, but I am practical. He didn't like that I was prying, and even you have to admit he's been fu…" She wrestled with the words. "…freakin' unstable. How is having him over for _dinner_ going to help with that?!"

"Well it seemed like a good idea at the time!"

Amana stepped out of his personal space. "I know Michael is important to you. I know you're concerned and that you're just trying to help him but…" She shook her head. "I only cared what happened to him because you care. Otherwise I'd be more happy to stay the heaven away from him and have him stay away from me. And it has nothing to do with being afraid of him, though I'll admit to having a healthy fear. Look, if it hadn't been for you it's likely our paths wouldn't've ever crossed and I'd've been perfectly happy with that."

Turning away before Walter could reply, Amana went to the stove and checked on the _pernil_.

"Smells good, Sugar."

"It should. It's roast pork." She stood. "If you get the bottle water and beers out of the fridge I'll grab the wine and glass."

"Sure thing."

Amana followed Walter back into the living room carrying the promised bottle of wine and a single glass. She set them down in front of Michael as Walter groaned and complained about having to bend over. "No one told you to use the tray," she teased. "I thought real men didn't use serving trays."

"Yeah well this real man had a momma who raised him right," was his answer as he fished the bottle opener from his Swiss Army knife. "And a daddy in the army."

That got a laugh out of two of them. Smiling, Birkoff pushed back his glasses with one hand and raised his bottled water with the other. "To a good idea despite bad timing."

Walter and Amana groaned. "To better speeches," Walter said.

"To better speeches!"

The doorbell rang as they touched bottles and glass. Amana knocked back a quick gulp of her beer then placed it softly on the coffee table. Indicating that they should be quiet, she stood. A short detour to the dining area found the Browning in her hands and her striding toward the door. "One minute."

It occurred to her, not for the first time, that perhaps she shouldn't have the music so loud. As it was, half her floor was probably wondering who or what a _querida_ was. But just as it'd been too late when she'd gone to open the door the first time – well it couldn't be helped.

"Who is it?"

_"Jackie… Walter's girlfriend?"_

Amana glanced back at the old man from her tight corner. He nodded. "Let'er in, Sugar. Dinner won't be nearly as much fun without her."

Michael said softly, "Something's burning."

Swearing, Amana jumped up and rushed out of the room.

Walter covered Birkoff's ears when the swearing became both colorful and artistic. "I think you're too young for this, kid."

Scowling, the young man yanked his friend hands from his ears. Jackie, sitting on the day bed that served as both a couch and guest bed, clapped her hands and laughed. Which did little to improve Birkoff's mood. "I can't even understand her," he protested.

"And that's what makes it so funny!" she snorted.

Amana returned, expletives still dripping, muttered, from her mouth. "Well the _mofongo_ is a lost cause—"

Walter groaned.

"But the rice will be ready in a minute. We can eat then." She turned on her heel and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

True to her word, Walter, Birkoff and Jackie were serving themselves five minutes later, laughing as they tried to maneuver in a kitchen not meant to see so much activity at once. Watching, Michael stood just outside the threshold in the dark dining area. Amana, he knew, stood beyond him, leaning on the support pillar of the half-wall that divided the dining area from the rest of the apartment. The Browning was still there. Or it had been when he'd passed her into the dark space, but he hadn't heard her move and—

"Your turn, Michael."

He took the plate Walter was offering and murmured a soft thank you.

"You too, Sug."

Birkoff studiously avoided his eyes when he passed.

"Cook eats last, Walter."

Jackie gave him a bright, quick, smile.

Amana and Walter were still arguing good-naturedly, from what Michael could hear, as he began filling up his plate, surprising himself with his hunger. It sounded, though, as if Walter had already begun eating. He glanced over the door of the refrigerator to see her standing in the half dark, shapes in the dining area gleaming dully.

They passed each other wordlessly when he was done.

*

"Didn't know you had a cat, Amana."

"I don't," she said as the big white tom leapt up into her lap, sniffed at her still greasy hands then butted against Jackie's arm. "I pet sit for a neighbor down the hall. She has Cofax here and Zippy, a corgi. They spent most of last month in my house and now think they own the joint. Hey…watch it, _senor_." The cat had begun licking at the plate in her lap. "Zippy would be in here too, but he can't do the balcony the way Cofax can." She looked up from the cat's green eyes. "No one here's allergic, right? I can just send him back—"

"Oh no!" Jackie protested as she moved closer to stroke his white fur. "Don't send him back. We've all had our shots."

A gleam in his eye, Walter countered with a quick, "Speak for yourself. I'm sure there's a few shots I've missed."

Birkoff snorted. "Unlikely. Has he ever told you about the time in Panama…"

While the cat made himself comfortable across Jackie's lap – letting her stroke his white fur, nipping at her fingers when she failed to scratch him in a way that befitted a guest in his home – Michael stood and began collecting empty glasses and bottles, plates and utensils, piling them up on one of the trays. When Amana half-rose from the daybed-turned-sofa to help him, he waved her away with his still free hand.

A moment later a burst of raucous laughter sent the white cat leaping from Jackie's lap to twine around Michael's ankles. He shifted his hips to keep from tripping as the cat managed to wind around his legs despite his forward motion. It gave up, however, to dart for the kitchen. He followed. The sound of Walter's and Birkoff's competitive storytelling rose and fell like an incoming tide lapping at his back.

The cat was sitting very determinedly in front of a central cupboard by the floor. Michael ignored it, noting the odd way sound from the living room was muted in the kitchen despite their proximity, setting the dirty dishes into the sink instead. Only then did he bend down to satisfy the cat. Who promptly darted into the dim dining area, glowing like a fuzzy beacon as he hunched in the dark.

Following, Michael was reminded that Simone had wanted a cat but worried about what would happen to it if one of them died, and that Elena also wanted a cat, but was allergic. They were considering getting a dog for Adam when he was old enough…

He paused in pouring the dry pet food. The cat, Cofax, butted against his hand.

He resumed pouring.


	3. Chapter 3

"_Everything," her captor says. She looks up at him for the first time since being forced down saying, "Be a little more specific." He gun whips her, saying, "I wouldn't be so smart if I were you." He leans over her. "We have your teammate. Helmsly is it? If you don't talk he watches you be broken, he is killed and then you are killed. Now, tell me…who else is here? What was your objective? Did you accomplish it?"_

Walter's lips were surprisingly soft and firm, holding none of that paper-thin quality she associated with her grandmother, against the back of her hand. "Thanks, Sugar."

She shrugged. "Just don't get used to it."

*

Operations narrowed his eyes. "Tell me who that is."

Setting aside the panel she had been perusing, Madeline came to stand before the monitors set flush into the far wall of the Perch. Featured in them were the various areas of Section. There were sixteen monitors in all, each receiving a feed, in part, directly from cameras placed within Section. The same cameras also fed main security. Security kept a regular rotation of views on each of the sixteen monitors which could be further controlled from the Perch.

They were standing in front of monitor five, with Operations' hand was on the little button under the screen to keep the picture from changing. Hands clasped neatly together in front of her, Madeline appraised the picture, and the person in it, for a moment. Glancing at Operations, she tilted her head and said, "I believe that is Amana Reyes."

"The Field Op you want moved into Cold Op training. Wasn't there a…thing at her apartment last night? Something Walter instigated?" he asked, half turning toward her.

Watching the blue-tinted Amana juggle the things in her arms, Madeline nodded. "Dinner."

"Michael was there?" he asked as if he didn't know.

"Yes."

"And now she's standing outside the door to his office." Operations frowned. "To do what?"

"Deliver something, or so it would appear."

"Is Michael even in there?" He took a quick glance at the monitors in front of him. "Buzz his office. I want to know if he's in there," he said, still looking.

Eyebrows going up briefly, Madeline moved two steps to her right and lightly tapped out the code for Michael's office. There was a short trill on their end of the line that she knew was being echoed several halls away. "Michael?"

"Henh."

"What?"

"She jumped when you said his name."

Fingers still on the intercom to keep the line active, Madeline took a step back and searched the wall of monitors until she placed Amana's again. The field operative was crouching in front of the door, arranging her deliveries on the floor. Madeline leaned closer to the wall: "Michael?"

Amana fumbled with the things in her hands. Operations snorted. Satisfied, the field operative stood quickly and strode away even faster. She didn't look back.

Madeline let the line die.

"Guess that means he's not in his office."

When next Operations asked Madeline why she sometimes accused him of being a boy playing with his toy soldiers, she knew this moment would serve her well.

*

"Why don't you want to go into Cold Op training, Amana?" Elsa Perlov looked up from the pointed toes of her left foot to her material.

Material that was glaring at her. "Not you, too."

"You'd make a good leader. You are a good leader."

Rolling her eyes, Amana returned to their post-workout stretching. "One little incident and suddenly I'm a leader," she grumped as she extended her right leg. "I wasn't the only one in that group who was ready for an incident to happen to O'Brian," she reminded the older woman.

"But you took the initiative."

"Because I was his lead material at the time. Anything bad came down and it was gonna come down on my head first."

"The life expectancy of a Cold Op is much longer than that of a field op," Elsa reminded her.

"Not Level One. They go down like flies with the rest of us." Amana retracted her right leg and extended her left leg as Elsa mirrored her. "Look, I don't want to do it, Els, and there's nothing you or Michael or Madeline can do to make me do it. I've got nothing for you to hold over my head. I—"

Laughing, Elsa came up out of her stretch. "Amana…relax. We're not going to hold someone hostage to make you move up in the world."

A snort from Amana told her what the young woman thought of that.

"All right then, let me bring up something else," Elsa said as she brought her legs together and bent over them.

"Mmhmm…?"

"Remember our bet? About taking a day to train all the material on my roster?"

Amana's head shot up, a wary look on her face. "Yeah?"

"Well I heard a rumor that you swore a blue streak last night."

*

"_Walter!" _

Brow raised, Michael looked up from the active panel in his hand and across the hall. It was the high-pitched sound that drew his and everyone else's eyes in the near vicinity. Other than the weapons master's name, he couldn't make out whatever else Amana seamed to be fuming about to Elsa. He turned away from her angry gesticulation in the direction of his office.

Michael frowned at the package on the floor in front of the door. Inside his office he picked it apart and examined it. There were more documents concerning Simone's death: things he still needed to sign eight months later. It shouldn't have surprised him, though it continued to. He was intimately acquainted with death. But it no longer hurt. That was what he kept telling himself.

With the documents – which he quickly signed – were several active panels he had been expecting from intel, a panel from Section Three that had been misdirected to his office…and two long, rectangular plastic containers. While it was difficult to bring hazardous materials into Section One it was not impossible. He pulled off the note taped to the top. Flipped it open:

_"You guys didn't take enough leftovers, and you didn't take any at all. If I remember right, this is stuff you liked. Hope it's enough. I'm not used to entertaining. _

_Reyes." _

Michael looked up from the note and out his window.

*

"Okay boys and girls," Amana said, clapping her hands together as she shifted her weight on feet spread shoulder-width apart. "Let's get started."

"Heard ya lost a bet," a man behind her drawled. "Heard ya get ta be ev'ra-body's meat t'day."

Hands on her hips, Amana slowly turned on her heel. "You know how to fight, Savannah?"

"Name's Will—"

"Nuh uh. Pretty drawl like that… Your name's Savannah. Like I said, you know how to fight, Savannah?" she repeated, ignoring his scowl.

"Yeah. I can fight."

"Ever been locked up?"

He graced her and the ring of students with a cocky smile. "Ain't that how we all got here?"

Pretending he hadn't spoken, she asked her question again. The scowl returned and he nodded sharply. "Why ya wanna know?"

"Stand up, Savannah." And then when he had: "Let me see your hands." The request brought on an immediate caginess. "I'm not going to do anything," she said, managing not to roll her eyes. "I swear. I just want to see your hands."

Reluctantly he held his hands out for her. Amana took them with impersonal brusqueness, turning them over so that they were palm up for her. She ran her fingers over them. He giggled. "That tickles."

Taking her turn to scowl, she pushed his hands back at him. "You may know how to fight, Savannah, but it's been a while. I bet you were in a low security prison."

"Yeah what about—"

The class jumped as he suddenly dropped to one knee, doubled over in pain. As he spluttered in pain at her feet, Amana turned in a tight circle meeting each of student's eye in turn. "The first thing you do in a fight is act first. It's not about ego. It's not about showing off. A lot of times it's not even about who's better if you're first.

"And while you're busy being first, aim for the kidneys. Quick way to incapacitate your enemy. You can always go for the solar plexus but that's not usually as available…"

*

"This is what…a…shot to…the solar plex-…-us…looks…like." Amana had her hands braced on her bent knees as she tried to catch her breath.

Suddenly she lurched up, shoulder catching her opponent in the groin and tossing her over. The pale woman curled into a ball behind Amana. "And that's what…a shot to the groin…looks like." Amana coughed, still effected by the blow she'd received. "It's a dirty move, but as you can see, boy or girl, it hurts like hell if you hit'em right."

*

Flat on her back, hair curling and stuck to the sweat on her face and neck, willing her heart to stay behind her ribs, Amana wheezed, "And this is how you fall when you are severely outmatched but… want to live long enough to be debriefed in a room… and not the infirmary." She coughed and it felt like someone was scraping sandpaper across her lungs

A large hand came into view. Amana took it, but instead of pulling her up he said, "Tell me the inherent danger in what I am doing," with the tension tight in their joined arms.

"You're helping an enemy," someone called out.

"She could use your leverage against you and—"

"The last answer," he said, "how could she use my leverage against me?"

Someone else spoke up: "She could make you overbalance and pull you down as she gets up."

"Good. Anything else?"

"She could have a weapon and use it against you?"

"Yes."

"Michael, are you going to pull me up or what?" Amana demanded. With a gasp she was up on her feet, standing next to the senior op. "Thanks." She turned to the group, her fourth, standing and sitting just off the mat. "And that's the proper way to get beat up. Now pair up and lets see how well you can take a fall."

Those who had been sitting scrambled to their feet. They began pairing off. Giving them all a brief, humorless smile, she nodded at their initiative and turned to thank Michael for doing such a thorough job of trouncing her in front of Elsa's advanced class – people more used to being her classmates.

He was gone.

Shrugging, Amana stepped off the mat, and reached for her bottled water and hand towel. She took a healthy swallow then turned back to the grappling pairs. "Of course, as Els always tells us, sometimes the best thing to know is when to die. This is Section One, not some action-adventure movie. You don't always get saved in the end. We're all Field Ops. We're all expendable. There are ways to make your enemy kill you if you don't want to pull the trigger yourself…of if you don't want to wait to get cancelled.

"Luckily for you guys, we won't be learning that in this class. Elsa hasn't taught us that one yet and I'm not exactly eager to learn."

*

"Elena…? Adam…? Are you home?" Michael called out as he carefully placed his briefcase by the door. It took some maneuvering, but he got his coat off and kept the plastic containers in hand. "Elena…"

"In here, Michael."

He moved toward the kitchen, sunglasses still on his face. "Where is here?"

"In the living room with Adam. Join us?

"_En momente_... I need to put some things away."

He wasn't sure why, but he had brought his coat in with him. It slipped easily from his arm to drape over the back of a near chair. The rectangular containers never left his hand. "Are you hungry?" he called out as he took them to the counter beside the sink.

The rustle of socks against the hardwood warned him: "You're still wearing your sunglasses," Elena said as she stood on tiptoe and pushed them into his hair. She kissed his temple. "How are you? How was work?"

"Thank you. I am tired and work was…good."

"So the usual," she said with a smile.

"Yes," he said turning toward her to give her a better kiss. After a moment: "I thought you said you were in the living room with Adam."

Elena laughed lightly, tugging gently on his earlobe. "Don't worry, Michael, he's right here clutching my leg. Isn't that right sweetheart?" she said, picking up their son. Pointing with her chin, she asked, "What's that?"

"Remember the dinner party I was invited to last night?" At her affirmative, he pulled off the note that had been re-stuck to the plastic container's top and handed it to her. Taking advantage of the situation, he reached for and took Adam from her arms and nuzzled him. The evening spent at Amana's apartment had only brought home how close he had been to losing his precious son. The picture of a small boy with large brown eyes and an unruly mop of curling brown hair, tucked unobtrusively into a corner of her bookshelf reminded him how easy it still was.

"Well that was nice of her," Elena said. "You said it's just her? That she lives alone?" When Michael nodded, she did as well. "I remember when I lived on my own. It's hard cooking for one. No wonder she was miffed that you didn't take anything," she said, playfully swatting her husband's shoulder. "So tell me what it is."

"I haven't opened it."

"Michael… Just like a man." She began moving around Michael and Adam, smiling indulgently at them both, preparing to dish out the food. "Well what did you have last night? I hardly saw you at all when you came in."

Confident now that Elena thought nothing strange of the food gift, Michael took a seat and shifted his son in his lap. "There was _mofongo, pernil_…" Adam pulled the sunglasses out of his hair. "No, the _mofongo_ burned."

"Oh?"

He nodded, placing his sunglasses on Adam's little face. "The _arroz y habichuelas con pollo_ were saved…"

*

_There are tears in her eyes. Whether from the gun-whipping or the threat he doesn't know. But it's too late to determine causes. He's already weighed the outcome and no one has won. Their life has a certain harsh economy that is undeniable, implacable and unforgiving._

"So congratulations are in order."

Amana turned from the window and watched Madeline climb the stairs into the Perch. "You just missed Operations. He— Well, you probably passed him the hall." She frowned. "And I would have assumed you knew I was being promoted."

Inclining her head in acknowledgment, Madeline joined Amana at the window. "That doesn't mean congratulations aren't in order," she said as the new Cold Op turned away. Cocking her head to one side, she studied the young woman standing next to her. Through Elsa she had the girl coaxed out of denim, t-shirts, sweaters and boots into slacks, camisoles, blazers and…boots.

Madeline followed Amana's gaze out onto the comm. floor. "You don't much like Michael, do you?"

Amana cut her eyes in the older woman's direction. There was a reason she was referred to as "The Den Mother." So long as she remembered that it was a viper's den, the moniker made sense. "I don't think I've ever made it a secret."

"May I ask why?"

"Why I don't like Michael?" Not waiting for an answer, she said, "I'd think that'd be obvious."

"Because he was instrumental in your beginning training as a Cold Op?"

Amana nodded.

"That hardly seems reasonable. Elsa also lobbied for your promotion. The two of you have always gotten along very well."

"Elsa…cares." Amana crossed her arms under her breasts. "She honestly felt like I was being wasted as a Field Op, that I'd do better and you'd get better out of me as a Cold Op."

"And Michael…?"

"And with Michael I'm just a number. A bunch of figures." She gestured to the comm. floor. Frowning, she drawled, "A statistic,"

Making a non-committal sound, Madeline turned just enough to see the op's profile. "Elsa was doing much the same."

Amana twisted around and graced Madeline with a wide smile. "Yeah, but she did it nicer. Even if it was a lie, Elsa made it seem like she was concerned about me personally and because of that I'd do anything for her. And she knows it. But Michael?" Her smile turned into a decided frown. She shook her head. "I bet you could not find one op, Cold, Field or otherwise, that would go out of their way for Michael. Not unless they were getting something out of it for themselves."

"That's more than enough for most people."

"Not when life and limb are at stake."

Madeline inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment. "So your problem with Michael is not related to your aversion to being promoted to Cold Op."

"Haven't exactly been keeping that secret either, have I?"

"Subtlety _isn't_ one of your strong suits." Madeline smiled. "As Michael's material you'll have plenty of opportunity to work on that."

*

"Hey, look," Birkoff murmured, gesturing with his chin.

Michael pulled his gaze from sim results marching across the screen in front of him and turned his gaze toward the Perch where Madeline was holding court with Amana Reyes. His new material. It occurred to him to wonder how she felt about the change in their "relationship." She had, after all, been giving him a wide berth for the better part of two years.

"What do you think Madeline's telling her up there?" Birkoff asked.

Michael brought the weight of his stare to bear on young man beside him.

Coloring, Birkoff quickly returned to the date before them. "Right..."

*

Walter rounded the corner, a stack of inactive panels in his hand. "So I guess this means congratulations are in order."

"Oh don't even say that," Amana grumped, elbows on the high table in front of her. "Madeline used almost those exact same words about four hours ago." But behind her there were murmurs of assent. Someone even patted her back. Amana whipped around. "Eric Helmsly, don't you even start."

The lanky Field Op raised both hands, backing away slowly. "Haven't even been a Cold Op for one whole day and already you're giving orders."

"I'll show you orders," she smiled, an eyebrow cocked. Suddenly they were grappling, good-naturedly pushing each other across the white and gray workspace, Amana trying to hook a leg around his and bring him down, as the other members of that night's team cheered them on.

"What's going on?"

The calm voice cut through them all like ice water on a fire. Amana had her back to the entrance – _A tactical error I bet I'll hear about later_, she thought as she dropped Helmsly's hands – and so couldn't see Michael. She had, of course, heard him and opened her mouth to shoulder the blame.

"Don't worry 'bout it, Michael," Walter said before she could. "They're just horsin' around. I got everything under control."

Amana turned and stepped to one side so that Helmsly, behind her, could see. Everyone else in the weapons locker seemed to be waiting for the other shoe to drop. Would Michael report them to Madeline and have them all reprimanded or leave them to Walter. They watched as he collected his active panel and mission arms. When he turned, he met their eyes one by one: "Section One is not a schoolyard. Thinking otherwise puts more than your own life at risk."

They all started talking at once – murmuring in hushed tones – as soon as he was gone. Walter gestured to Amana. Rolling her eyes, she strode toward the table. "And I'm supposed to be his new material. I miss Elsa."

"Michael's good people, Amana."

"You've been saying that for three years, Walter. Are you even sure if that's true anymore."

He placed a warm, callused hand on her black sleeve. "Trust me. And you'll get used to him."

Raising her eyebrows, Amana let a sharp short breath. "I'm not sure about that."

*

They rocked with the van, despite its state-of-the-arts shocks. Michael glanced around the crowded interior: Amana was crouched on the floor handing up rifles from the weapons locker, Birkoff was using Thorne and Helmsly to test the comm., Shinn had turned Birkoff's laptop toward himself and was going over the mission spec with three other operatives, and Tissavel appeared to be sleeping but she took a rifle when Amana handed it to her.

Weapons handed out, she kneeled up and sat beside Michael. He studied her as she did her own appraisal of the operatives crowded into the mission van and saw none of that morning's immaturity.

"We're ready," she murmured.

He nodded.

A half-hour later they were silently spilling out the back of the van.

*

_It is with half-dazed, half-crystalline vision that she sees the back of Helmsly's head explode in a cloud of red blood and fine bone and grey wet tissue. Then a line attached to her skull jerks her backwards._

Leaning back in his chair, Operations crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at Madeline standing in front of him. "Do you really think it's a good idea giving him new material?"

"You know as well as I do that Michael's become too insular. Dangerously so. He needs to be forced to interact with the world in a meaningful way."

Operations quirked an eyebrow at her. "And maybe we should just cut your prize boy loose."

"He's too valuable."

"Need I remind you that he _shot_ his last material," he returned.

"Even Shinn said that there was an equal chance that Reyes had been compromised as not. I believe we agree that Shinn is an exemplary operative." Operations nodded, waving his hand as if to tell her to go on. "What Michael did, then," she continued smoothly, "was not unjustified."

"That may be true but another operative would have _tried_ to retrieve Reyes and Helmsly."

Madeline inclined her head. "But you saw how affected Michael was by his decision."

Operations snorted.

"It's true that he didn't…break down," she acknowledged with a softly indulgent smile. "But it is the most emotive he's been since Simone's death. Which," she added quickly to stifle a retort, "would not be our concern but, as I told you before, an increasing number of reports show that it has begun to effect his relationship with Elena. He 'works' late more than ever and spends as little of his downtime with her as he can get away with. This in direct contrast to his behavior just before and just after Simone's death. Whatever comfort he found in Elena is no longer there for him. We can't afford for him to disengage. Not now.

"It bothered him, what happened with Reyes, if only because he felt personally responsible for her. He needs that level of personal involvement."

Operations' eyebrows went up. "And you're saying he doesn't have that with Elena and the boy."

"Clearly, at first, he did. But Elena and Adam don't need him as evidenced by Elena's early acceptance of his long absences. Nor can he share this aspect of his life with them, and thus he has pulled away. That issue would be moot with his material."

She smiled and tilted her head. "We've discussed this."

"At length."

"And has my argument suddenly become faulty?"

Their eyes met and held. Madeline blinked slowly and held her ground, her face a pleasant mask.

Operations smiled, slouching in his chair. "Of course not." Raising a hand to his chin, he asked, "So tell me who you've picked."

[in]Fin[ite]


End file.
